


A Taste of Metal

by Nny



Series: 2020 Valentine's Requests [12]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Clint is a sex fan, Deaf Clint Barton, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:47:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22755760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: Usually he can distract himself from it. Usually he can dance close with someone, or make out in a dark corner, until he's all but forgotten the tug on his heart. Usually he doesn't have a reminder of what he's trying to ignore literally imprinted onto his skin, and even think about that is making him half-hard again, making him genuinely consider going to the bathroom of this skeevy club to deal with it himself.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: 2020 Valentine's Requests [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1633162
Comments: 21
Kudos: 216





	A Taste of Metal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kangofu_CB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/gifts).



> For Kangofu_CB, written at the request of FlawedAmythyst.

Clint likes sex. 

Clint has always been an enthusiastic fan of sex, and has made sure to experience as much as possible of it, with all different kinds of people, in many _many_ different positions. 

Mostly he would describe himself as easy, which always gets a laugh, but that's not exactly what he means. It's just that, so long as everyone involved has fun and gets off, he's never really been one for major preferences. He likes having his hair pulled a little, maybe, likes to make people feel good and be told he's doing a good job. Aside from that he's willing to try anything once, and he's never had any complaints. 

Right now, though, he's going through a bit of a dry spell, and his life would be a hell of a lot easier if it was lack of opportunity that was holding him back. 

"I'm sure you're a great person," he says, raising his voice over the thumping music, "and you are deeply, deeply attractive, but -" 

"No worries," they say. He hadn't caught their name, just the way that they looked at him, and it is honestly killing him right now to turn them down. 

"Maybe another time," he calls as they walk away, and they look back over their shoulder and toss him a wink. 

Clint sighs and slumps back against the wall of the club, then adjusts the strap of his sling so it's not strangling him and tries again. It's ruining the effect of his carefully-sized purple shirt, but Natasha had insisted he wear the sling after he'd fucked his wrist up even more trying to carry two coffees at once. 

The sling is more than half of his problem, right now. 

Usually he can distract himself from it. Usually he can dance close with someone, or make out in a dark corner, until he's all but forgotten the tug on his heart. Usually he doesn't have a reminder of what he's trying to ignore literally imprinted onto his skin, and even think about that is making him half-hard again, making him genuinely consider going to the bathroom of this skeevy club to deal with it himself.

He rubs his thumb over the bandage wrapped around his wrist, the lines of pain flaring sharp beneath it, and resigns himself to going home unaccompanied and jerking off unsatisfying and alone. 

*

Clint had been doing his job much as usual, calling plays as he saw 'em and taking out what he could. He had to resort to hand-to-hand fighting a couple of times, the weird fly-people crawling up sheer walls to get to his position, and he just thanked whatever mutation they had that there weren't any fuckin' wings. He'd been listening to Tony bickering with Steve about the appropriate amount of money to spend on a dinner between friends when Bucky had cut in. 

"Sam," he'd yelled, "get me to Clint!" 

The intensity in his voice gave Clint pause; only for a millisecond, but it had been enough to get him knocked almost silly by a fly-person wielding a plank of wood. There'd been eight of them on the rooftop with him, and he'd managed to take out three with his first shot; then they were too close, and his bow too unwieldy, and he folded it down and shoved it into his quiver, grabbing a knife for one hand and a taser arrow for the other. He'd been holding his own fairly well when Bucky's boots had hit the rooftop, but he'd been momentarily distracted by the glint of sunlight on Bucky's arm; next thing he knew something'd caught him in the back of the ankles, sending him staggering backwards - only there wasn't enough roof left. 

The adrenaline hit him like a punch to the stomach, a hell of feeling too much and seeing too clear that seemed to last forever. Then there was searing pain in his shoulder, his wrist, and he looked up to see Bucky hanging above him, his thighs wrapped around the metal of a fire-escape and Clint's wrist firmly gripped in his hand. 

*

Clint would feel less skeevy about the whole thing if Bucky wasn't so clearly mortified to have hurt him. He'd caught Clint running his fingers over the straight-cut lines bruised into his skin and he'd practically run out of the room to get away from him, so any and all fantasies Clint might've had - about cold metal fingers, and both his wrists pressed against a wall - are never gonna be made into a reality. 

It's fine. He just wishes he wasn't so hung up on it, 'cos he's got an itch he's not sure he can reach right to scratch. 

It all comes to a head one night in the Tower. Clint heads down to the range, because he's bored and frustrated and he's got a crossbow that will be something at least. When he walks through the door he can hear the crashing of a handgun even with his aids turned down all the way. Bucky doesn't see him until he's unloading the gun, all of his fingers skilled and quick, and then he signs that he's sorry, that he's just leaving, and Clint has honestly had enough. 

"Fuck's sake," he says, "it's fine, I'll go. But you're welcome to quit avoiding me any damn time." 

He's stopped wearing the sling, now, and his wrist is unwrapped; Bucky's fingers are gentle and cold when he touches Clint's wrist, tactile in a way he only ever is when Clint's got his ears turned down low. 

Clint doesn't mean to, but he can feel the noise slip out of him at the feeling of metal against his skin. He can feel the heat climbing into his cheeks, 'cos it had felt guttural in his throat, and there's no way that Bucky's mistaken it for fear or protest, not with the expression on his face when Clint turns to look. 

Without breaking eye-contact, Bucky curls his fingers a little tighter. 

Clint doesn't bother fighting the urge to drop to his knees. 


End file.
